


The Devil and the Deep Blue Werewolf

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angels vs. Demons, Angst and Feels, Contracts, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Heaven vs Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sad llamas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-11-09 00:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: Derek is a werewolf who's intent on avoiding trouble, Stiles is a demon who's intent on quite the opposite.





	1. Leap Before You Look

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so this was suppose to be drabble then it grew legs, a tail, two horns and ran away from me. Stiles is kind of a terrible person in this one but meh. he’s a minion of the antichrist, cut him some slack. Also, this is complete blasphemy lmao.
> 
> Enjoy reading~

It’s not his fault_._

“It’s not my fault.”

Opposite him, Scott sighs and rolls his eyes.

Stiles tries and fails to not be offended. It's only salt to his wound that Scott McDoofypants is the one doing the eye-rolling, a job that's specifically reserved for Stile. he’s got the signature Stilinski Stink-eye down to a science.

“It’s not my fault.” He repeats, louder this time.

Because it really isn’t. 

Is it his fault that some Joe Schmo in upper management has assigned him his G.D. license so soon after graduating demon school? Was it his fault that Greenberg thought he had summoned Amon instead of Stiles through a magic circle? (That he drew with crayon by the way, what an idiot.)

It's not like he can ignore a summons! So he possessed Greenberg's body and danced naked in the mall. So what? The whole thing blew over quickly and it's not like anyone got hurt. Isn't that the point of demons anyway? To cause chaos and go on rampages? Isn't that why he's stuck here?

Stiles had only been an Apprentice G.D. at the time, how was he to know the dude’s G.A. was Finstock? Finstock! As in I-only-have-one-testicle Finstock, is a freaking Guardian Angel. What in hell is Heaven coming to? How is it that a guy like Finstock gets promoted to GA? Stiles’ been trying to get with the man upstairs for the better part of a century and still no dice, but Finstock is the one they let in?

Obviously, Armageddon is soon to be upon them.

They enter the lift and head down to the seventh floor, sprinting left for the court room.

Unlike as advertised, Hell actually has eighteen floors, technically eighteen basements if you’re looking at it upside down. Each floor belongs to a major demon of Soloman that managed to escape that old wackadoo’s mind control. Yea.., they tell the story a little different down here. Anyway, Quarterly Revenue Control (QRC) comes up every couple years to sweep through their tally system and it's just his luck they've chosen today for a spot-check.

Every demon has a scorecard; the more evil and chaos wrought upon a mortal soul, the higher the points on your scorecard, the more points you have the longer your Earth visa is extended and the more time you’ll get to wreck havoc on the surface, thereby continuing the cycle.   
It's a terribly elitist system but Stiles isn't going to write Satan a feedback, unless he wanted to be dumped in the Pit with the rest of the sinners.

“Hell’s no picnic either huh.”

Scott looks at him like he’s grown an extra head and he sighs, tightening the black tie around his neck and smoothing out the crisp white shirt as best as he can.

Might as well look presentable before the jury.

“You ready?” Scott asks, full-on puppy eyes silently pleading for him to be on his best behaviour. As if he isn't already.   
He met Scott two centuries ago and they’ve been best friends ever since. Sometimes he wishes Scott was a demon like him, then they could get in trouble together and Stiles wouldn't have to be alone but that would be like dragging a drowning person and Stiles isn't about to do that to Scott. 

It's better this way, he figures, Scott as his representative from the In-Between and Stiles as his insider from the land below. 

"Mhmm."

He sees Jackson and Danny from across the hallway, sneering. They all work in the same department, wear the same black and white uniform and get the same pay-check but those two love acting higher and mightier than everyone else, especially Jackson. Boy he hated that guy, if anyone should be thrown into the Pit, it should be Jackson.

"Objectively, what's the worst they can do?" He knows the Pit is a last resort and he's hoping to plead for a lighter sentence.

Scott raises an eyebrow, "Objectively?"

"Objectively."

"I dunno."

He frowns, "Real helpful Scotty."

Scott shrugs.

He sighs again, biting at his thumb ‘You think… you think they’ll kick me out?"

He can’t help the tremor in his voice, "I haven’t made the best impression but... I don't wanna disappear Scott."

Scott claps a hand on his back but doesn't say anything.

They enter the room.

Deucalion leans back on his leather armchair, high up on the podium. He makes no move to acknowledge their presence but Stiles can see the black shades shining under the fluorescent light, causing his testicles to retract involuntarily.   
The archdemon is the Head of his Department, directly under Lucifer's command and one of the three pillars of the seventh floor. Stiles has seen the guy exactly three times in the last two centuries, none of which held particularly pleasant memories.

“Welcome, Mr Stilinski, Mr McCall. It's nice to see you two again.’ Overseer Deaton addresses them and this time it's Scott who shrinks back in fear.

Deaton's in charge of the In-Between i.e. Purgatory. Stiles hates him as much as he hates Jackson. Scott, on the other hand, worships the ground he walks on, takes every word the man says as Gospel. As if he had a choice.

“Enough talk.” Chancellor Morell of Sixth Heaven interrupts, “Session is in progress.”

Stiles takes his position at the stand. Scott takes a seat at the opposite corner.

Morell eyes him with clinical precision, like Stiles was a specimen under a microscope “Stiles M. Stilinski, are you aware of the transgressions made against one mortal Adams Greenberg? Whereupon a successful summons had taken place?’

He nods.

“Are you also aware that non-compliant summonings are against the Coelum-Infernis Peace Act as mandated by law? That a case has been made against you for breaking said law?"

Finstock leers from the witness stand and Stiles wants to rip that silver halo right off his head. 

He opens his mouth to argue but sees Scott’s pleading look and shuts it. 

He nods.

Morell continues on with the onslaught. After awhile he stopped listening, bobbing his head up and down to an imaginary song.

Scott glares at him with increasing intensity, eyes nearly bugging out from their sockets.

It doesn't matter at this point. Morell has made it exceeding clear he’s not going to walk without a sentence. He just hopes Deucalion will have pity on his soul and let him say his goodbyes before snapping him to the Pit.  
He’s made more enemies than friends over the years and when he says friends he means Scott. Well Scott and Fluffy, Keeper of the Portals between the surface and the Gates of Hell. His official name is Cerberus but Stiles prefers Fluffy instead. Fluffy doesn't listen to anyone other than Scott and Deaton but Stiles likes to think they’re at least friends, if the excessive growling and slobbering are anything to go by.

Deucalion bangs his gravel, snapping Stiles from his reverie.

By the time he regains his bearings, everyone was already standing to leave.

_Well this it_, he thinks, breathing a sigh. He’s headed for the Pit after all.

The Pit is where all sinners go, becoming fodder that kept Hell up and running. It ensured the underworld would have a steady supply of lighting and year-round AC, otherwise the darkness and heat would've been unbearable.   
They used to burn the souls with hellfire back in the day but after one too many accidents, they'd switched to converting non-renewable energy instead.

Once a soul falls into the Pit, it's gone. Poof! Stripped of its memories and individuality, it’ll disappear forever into the abyss. 

Stiles is going to be disappear like the rest of them too, never knowing how he ended up here in the first place or catching one final glimpse of Earth when he had the chance.

He’s going to die.   


—  


"I’m not going to die?"

Scott grins, brown curls shaking up and down.

"You’re sure?" He asks again "Like one-hundred-percent tip-top break-your-mother’s-back sure?"

"Yes Stiles, l’m one-hundred-percent tip-top break-your-mother’s-back sure."

“But... how?"

"I'm not suppose to tell you this but... you’ve got help from _The Man Upstairs_." 

He frowns, "You mean The Man Downstairs."

"No." Scott pauses significantly, "Upstairs, Stiles. You know... _Him_." Scott points an index finger towards the ceiling, jaw dropping whenever He-who-must-not-be-Named came up. No, not Voldemort, he means _Him_ as in, you know, _God_.

That… that actually makes a lot of sense. With his track record, he's surprised Satan himself hadn’t come up to fry him to a crisp. Stiles certainly would, after all the crap he's pulled over the years. Also, are demon-flavoured chips a thing? Do they taste good? And more importantly, are they better than curly fries?

_Focus Stiles, focus._

“But why? I've never met the guy."

Scott shrugs, still grinning.

"Deucalion wanted me to tell you this, don't worry it's good news, they’re setting your counter back to zero and— 

Stiles groans mid-sentence. He's already behind on the charts, now everyone will know what happened and Jackson will be insufferable, at least more than he already is.

"Annnd." Scott huffs at being interrupted "Your powers have been stripped clean, nothing left but the basic package. Sorry man."

Stiles groans again, slamming his head onto the desk.

He's not the strongest magic user in his department but he's definitely the most creative one. Besides, magic is a part of who he is, losing it will be like losing his horns or his tail. This was going to suck.

"You’ve got one last shot. They’ve assigned you a mortal on the surface, as G.D. Stiles! And if you do well, they'll reconsider reinstating your Earth Visa."

"_This is suppose to be good news?!_"

"Stiles, if you fail this assignment that's _it_ okay?" Scott glares severely "Not even Michael himself could help you!" 

He sucks in a deep breath, counting his fingers. Ten, they're all still there. He's still there.

"You okay?" Scott pats his shoulder.

"Five minutes ago, I thought I was going to die in a spiralling abyss at the depths of Hell.

Give me a moment to recover will you?" He snaps.

"Here." A folder slides across the table towards him.

He opens it, curious despite himself, and reads. A moment later he recoils in shock.

‘A werewolf?! I'm suppose to babysit a freaking _werewolf?_"

“Yep!” Scott just keeps grinning at him, all dopey-eyed and servile.

Stiles wants to wring his best friend's neck.

He should've known better, of course they weren't going to make it easy for him. Why should they? He very nearly upset the delicate peace they've set up in the last century. It's a wonder Deucalion didn't just blow him up into smithereens the moment he'd entered.  
Still, a human would’ve been challenge enough but of all things a _werewolf_? Why not a werewolf you ask? Well… they’re complicated. Super strength and enhanced senses for one, which meant that demons like him would have no way of shadowing their movements, thereby making them extremely tricky to manipulate.

It's a GD’s worst nightmare.

At least the dude is cute, he thinks absently. If not for the permanent frown on his face.

He hands the folder back and it disappears with a wave. They ascend the last flight of stairs and reach the top. Fluffy is there waiting for them, tongue out and tail wagging. 

“You ready?” Scott asks, for the second time that day.

He sighs and cranes his neck, thankful to be alive for one more day. Count your blessings when you can right?

Stiles swallows and nods, pumping a fist into the air, “Beam me up Scotty!”

Scott salutes before sending a complicated hand signal to Fluffy, who howls and spins in a delicate circle.

For a giant five hundred ton hellhound, he sure is agile.

The gates open to just a sliver, barely enough for his slight frame to slide through the charred metal. Then he's shooting up, up, up to the surface, like a pebble being sucked through a straw. He exits through an open portal and plops down onto solid ground, spotting his target just under a mile away.

With one last look at Scott and Fluffy below, he steps out into the dying daylight, ready to begin his job as Guardian Devil to a very handsome and very grumpy, Mr. Derek Hale.


	2. Curiosity Killed the Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omgawwwd Stiles is such a little shit, I cannot even lol.
> 
> hopefully he gets to redeem himself in later chapters :D

Derek knows something is wrong.

He knows it deep in his bones, from his shoulders way down to his toes.

Something is wrong, or going to go wrong, or is about to go wrong.

If Laura were here, she would chide at his paranoia before checking his forehead for a fever. But she’s not, and Derek bemoans his inability to disobey his older sister, which is stupid really, since they’re only apart by like three minutes. (_Five, Derek. Five._)

He goes about his day as usual – workout at seven, breakfast by eight and work at eight-thirty on the dot. All the while, he feels eyes boring down at him. Twice, he thinks he sees something rustling in the trees, something with glowing eyes, like a fox or a racoon. God knows there’s plenty of those around here. But when he turns around, there's nothing there.

He waits for a proclamation of doom, some dastardly plot to take over the world or evil villain laughter ringing in the distance but nothing happens.

Which made it all the more unsettling.

He’s on his way to work one morning when he passes Mrs Hopkins on the way down.

Mrs Hopkins is their landlord and pushing eighty this year. She lives on the floor above their apartment and never misses a chance to pinch their cheeks and hand out gum drops that looked like they expired in the sixties.

She’s also under the mistaken impression that he and Laura are a couple that eloped to the big city.  
Apparently they're from feuding families who don't see eye to eye on much about anything, à la Romeo and Juliet. The Shakespearean one, not the one where they're trigger happy mobsters roaming the streets of NYC.

Laura finds the whole thing hilarious, takes every opportunity to feed Mrs Hopkins crazy fantasy (_Derek darrrling, could you get the groceries please? Thank you honey-bunch sweet-cheeks apple-of-my-eye, thorn-in-my-side!)._

Derek thinks it's stupid and also, _Ew_.

He misses her immensely.

He knew he should've gone back with her but the thought of Beacon Hills was still… 

She seemed to understand though and didn't put any pressure on him.

“_I’ll be back soon.” _She had said, hugging him tightly at the airport. Catching the look on his face, she’d continued on in a teasing voice “_Don't worry darrrling, I shan’t be long. I wouldn't do that my honey-bunch sweet-cheeks apple-of-my-eye, thorn-in-my-side!_”

He had shoved her towards the gate, deep laughter ringing in his ears.

Now, he wishes he’d held her close and never let go.

A beta without an alpha might as well be an omega and they both know how dangerous that could be. Derek isn't keen on finding exactly how much.

He’s scheduled to join her in a month, just in time for Thanksgiving. Their last correspondence was three days ago and Laura seemed fine, if not a bit tired out by all the forms and papers she had to sign. The bank, their lawyer and the insurance company had notified them at the beginning of the year and though Derek was perfectly fine ignoring them, Laura sure wasn't.  
She’s always been the more responsible one.

He heads out the apartment, waving goodbye to Mrs Hopkins. He reaches the store and goes about his day packing and unpacking boxes. Bill, the owner, comes over to his station at two o’ clock and they head out to lunch with his son, Jeff, along with two other newcomers he doesn't recall the names of.  
After lunch, Jeff invites him to hang out with the boys after work and Derek politely declines. The man gets a sharp look in his eye which Derek realises after a beat, was supposed to look threatening.

Derek relents with a gritty smile, even though he really doesn't want to go. He should’ve made an excuse, if only he was better at lying. _Just like Kate was._

He hastens to push that thought out of his mind and goes back to packing more boxes for the rest of the afternoon.

—

It's a Thursday night at the club so the place isn’t as packed as it should be, but the smell of drugs and alcohol was still nauseating.

There’s also a faint trace of something else, something bitter and acrid like sulfur.

The sense of wrongness he had felt over the last week was now stronger than ever. 

He breaks away from his coworkers, grabs a drink and leans against the far wall. He couldn't leave without an excuse, at least not yet. Maybe once the place gets crowded enough, he’ll get a chance to slip out.

A chorus of ‘_Whooop!_’ grabs his attention. It's coming from the dance floor and he zeroes in on a guy who’s dancing like he’s lost all control of his limbs.

There’s a crackle in the air, magic simmering like a coiled snake waiting to pounce.

The guy looks barely legal and Derek briefly wonders how this establishment hasn't been shut down yet. It's not anyone that he recognises at least, though he would definitely remember if he had. The dancer moved with reckless abandon, hands waving in the air like the tentacles of an octopus. He looked incredibly pale and lanky, sporting a buzzed crewcut, sharp long ears and thin lips that quirked sideways in a sly smile. The most striking feature however, were his glowing amber brown eyes…

_Wait. Glowing?_

His heart races.

It can't be an omega, Derek's sure of it. But if it isn't, then what the hell was he? And… is that a tail? Attached to his butt?

Not that he’s looking at the guy’s butt because he isn't.

_He isn’t._

Anyway, he slinks closer, ducking from behind the DJ booth to get a better look.

The dancer, whoever or whatever he was, definitely had a supernatural aura about him, though not one Derek could place. There were bodies pressed against him on all sides, smooth skin slipping and sliding against black leather pants, crisp white shirt fitted so tightly across his chest that it might as well be part of his skin. A belt of gold chains and buckles hung low around his thin waist, tinkling like a warning every time he moved.

The smell of sulfur was overwhelming now, tickling at his nose.

Derek surges from his spot, angling through the coiling mess of limbs to grab at the guy, who he’s now a hundred percent sure is _not _human. He’s almost there when suddenly, Poof! He seemed to vanish into thin air. 

Momentarily stunned, he looks around to see if anyone had noticed but no one was paying attention.

Was it just his imagination?

He's about to give up when he spots the buzzed head bobbing up and down a few feet away. 

Derek grinds his teeth.

No supernatural creature he knows of is capable of teleportation. Maybe a witch or a warlock but even then, not without an incantation or ritual of some kind.

He forces his way through the crowd, more determined than ever.

Multiple hands and hips reach out as if to stop him, dipping into every nook and cranny of his body. He growls when one comes dangerously close to cupping the back of his jeans.

_What the hell is happening? _

He lingers in close proximity but doesn't make a move, not yet. 

He has to play this smart or it’ll escape again and he doesn't have all night.

Seeing an opportunity, he grabs the guy by the arm again but this time, he's as quick as lightning and twice as strong. 

The creature snarls, taken aback and tries to struggle before apparating away.

It doesn't matter though, Derek knows how to play the game now. 

He traces the heady scent of sulfur, relying more on his nose than his eyes to predict where it’ll turn up next. It’s a game of connect-the-dots until they’re almost at the exit, where Derek will have him cornered like a mouse.

If only the guy hadn’t reached out to swipe at him, missed, tripped on his own tail and fell backwards with his arms in the air like he was competing in the Olympics swimming event.

Worst thing is, he’d grabbed Derek along with him.

They tumble out the backdoor.

'_You!'_

The thing shoots back up and huffs in a hissy fit, 'You’re not supposed to see me! No one is supposed to see me!'

He threw his arms up in the air 'How am I suppose to stalk _you_ if you’re stalking _me?_ Can’t you werewolves ever follow the script?'

“...You’re the one who's been stalking me? Also, what script are you talking about?” He shook his head, wiping the fog from his mind. 

“I mean, why are you stalking me?”

Amber eyes look away from him and the man hid both hands behind his back. 

'I’m not stalking you... per say.'

“Oh?”

That earns him a nod.

'Depends on how you define stalking...'

Derek knows where this is headed, Laura’s been playing these mind games with him since they were little.

"I don't have to.” He crosses his arms.“You just _admitted _you were stalking me.” 

'No I didn't!' the guy splutters, voice hitching slightly.

“Yes, you did.” He takes a step closer, boxing the slim frame against the wall.

'Nuh-uh, liar liar pants on fire!'

He frowns, “What are you, twelve?”

'Two hundred and sixteen actually.' The creature retorts, '—Two hundred and seventeen to be precise, considering the year is almost over.'

Derek sucks in a deep breath despite himself.

Whatever this thing was, it had to be really powerful to have survived this long. Which also meant it would be very hard to kill, perhaps even impossible.

He eyes the creature up and down.

Now he could see the tail clearly, it was almost as long as the body it belonged to and just as thin and whip-like, swishing up and down frantically. Not to mention, it had twin gazelle horns that stretched from just above it's sharp ears to slightly less than a feet from his head, like two large antennas shimmering onyx in the pale light. 

He blinks hard. _Where’s Laura when you need her?_

“What… what are you?” He hesitates, almost afraid of the answer.

There’s a moment of tense silence, sulfur dissipating into the air, something else breaks through the surface and his nose is suddenly accosted by the sweet and spicy scent of tangerines and cinnamon sticks.

But it's gone as soon as he catches a whiff, replaced once again by the acidic taste of sulfur. 

The creature stares at him, amber eyes narrowed into slits.

'Tinkerbell.'

He moves before he can think and a lithe body is shoved up high against the chain fence. He leans in, fangs dropping dangerously close to an outstretched throat.

“_Don’t play games with me.” _Derek growls softly, voice not quite human.

'I’m not.' The guy replies, sounding almost bored. With a snap of fingers, he disappears.

Derek crouches down, waiting for an attack that never comes.

'_And you should take your own advice, sourwolf!'_

Flashing amber eyes are the last thing he sees before he’s once again alone in the empty alleyway, hand still balled into a fist.

* * *

Life is an extended holiday.

At least it is for Stiles. For the mortals on the surface though, life is an extended prison sentence. You either do good and get out or you do bad and disappear forever like a bad rendition of Sophie's Choice

Still, demons have their own set of problems, Stiles certainly has.

He’s been stuck on desk duty ever since Greenberg and has never been happier to be back on god's green earth again. The magnificent blue sky, the wide open fields, the soft caresses of the wind… Ahh. 

Yet the humans that shuffle past are completely oblivious to the beauty that surrounds them, choosing instead to box themselves in what looked like giant milk cartons that glimmered in the sunlight, hurting his eyes.

Stiles shook his head, he'll never understand humans.

Life is an extended vacation, and he’s not going to waste any second of it. 

Especially if staying meant making Derek Hale miserable. And by the looks of it, Derek has done half the job for him.

Dude’s life is a _mess_.

Stiles should know. He’s usually the cause of said mess but whoah, killing his whole family in a fire? That’s just not right. He even had his girlfriend help him out, that psycho. There were other stuff in his file too but Derek’s guilty as far as he’s concerned and he dove into action as soon as he spotted the target.

His first attempt hadn't gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. He’d lured Derek to the club on purpose, drenching the area with the heavy perfume of a love potion, along with hypnotic music that drowned its listens in a fevered pitch of ecstasy. It was the best strategy to deal with a werewolf, turning it's enhanced senses against itself.

Who knew however, that Derek was both insanely handsome and insanely smart (_how unfair_) and ended up turning the tables against him instead.

Now he's been discovered, hasn't established a contract and Derek treats him like gum beneath his shoe.

_Way to go, Stiles._

No matter, there’s still plenty of time before the deadline.

He has exactly one month. One month before the reaper will ascend to earth and collect Derek’s soul, one month before Stiles will be thrown into the Pit and disappear forever, immortality be damned.

He shudders at the thought.

That’s only if he’s unsuccessful though, and that's not going to happen. He’s not going to let that happen, he’s gonna crack Derek like a walnut. He just needs a plan where he can have his cake and eat it too.

It's strange though, Derek doesn't go anywhere, barely does anything and doesn't interact with anybody outside of home and work. Every time he heads out for anything, he's always looking behind his shoulder, like he was gonna get ambushed in broad daylight.

Pfft, as if human would stand a chance against a werewolf.

_What a waste_, he couldn’t help but think. With that face and that body in his posession, they could really do some damage. Maybe break a few hearts, play around a little, you know have some fun.

Instead, he’s stuck in the tiny broken down apartment watching Derek do yet another set of push-ups. Stiles takes a bite of chocolate and sighs, even his exercise routine is boring.

“If you’re done oggling, care to join me?”

He chokes, bits of peanut butter flying everywhere.

_How the hell?_

The werewolf seemed to read his mind and smirks.

“I can’t see you but I can smell you and hear you.”

He presses on with a tilt of his massive eyebrows, “Or did you really think I wouldn't notice a Reese peanut butter cup floating in mid-air?”

_Damnit, this guy_.

Stiles grinds his teeth.

In his mind's eye, he could see Scott’s puppy dog face flopping from side to side (_Bad Stiles, bad bad Stiles!_).

_Whatever._

He snaps his fingers, materialising out of thin air.

'I’m not ogling.' He sniffs delicately, looking down at Derek.

'Don’t flatter yourself.'

It's the truth. Hell consists entirely of hot guy-and-gal demons, its part of their genetic makeup. Even old man Deucalion is built like a Greek statue... if you’re into that sorta thing. Pygmalion won’t judge but Stiles certainly would. How else are you gonna get mortals to sign a contract they’re sure to end up regretting down the road? It’s like salespeople or property agents, they have to be dolled up, it's part of the job description.   
All except for Stiles though, he seemed to be the only one in his department to have lucked out on the gene pool. Even Scott has his boy-next-door good looks which urgh okay, he loves the man like a brother but like no, just _no_. 

Doesn’t matter though, he has other strengths. For one, no one can beat him at demonic possession. He’s the best in his class and second at elemental magic, only behind Lydia Martin, whom he would gladly like to be behind of, if she would just spare him a glance.

'You nearly made me choke on chocolate!' He pointed a finger in accusation, tail swishing furiously.

'I could’ve died you know!'

Derek frowns up at him, Stiles is beginning to think that's his default setting.

“Are you forbidding me to speak in my own home?” 

He splutters, changing the topic quickly 'Home? You call this place _home_?'

'Dude, there’s _literally_ nothing here but exercise equipment! Why not just sleep at the gym? At least they have a juice bar!' He floats around the room, pointing to every crack and crevice to illustrate his point.

"Not even Superman's fortress of solitude is this empty!"

He’s exaggerating but not by much, he opens the fridge with a wave of his hand and isn't surprised to see there's nothing there. The cupboards and drawers are empty too and so is the dresser. There’s only a duffel bag by the floor that looks like it's been used recently, along with a beaten up mattress in the middle of the room.

A mattress, not even a bed! _Oh, the humanity!_

It just doesn’t make any sense.

Stiles has haunted hobos before, he knows what it's like to be homeless. Derek has a home but chooses to live like a homeless person, it's an insult to those who don't actually have a roof over their heads.

Not that Derek seems to care because he answers, “You stalked me, broke into my house and now you’re… Critiquing my taste in interior design?”

Stiles wants to hit his head against the wall.

Repeatedly.

'Oh my god! I was not— I did not—' He huffed in annoyance. 'Dude! I’m not stalking you, okay? Urgh. You’re making this way harder than it needs to be, do you know that? What do you even want from me man?'

“I think that should my line.” Derek crosses his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

'Nuh-uh! I asked first.'

“Fine.” Derek agrees. “I want to know the truth.”

“What are you and why are you following me?”

_Boring_. Stiles yawns and does a somersault in mid-air.

'And I thought you were smarter than that, silly me.'

He lets his eyes bleed black before continuing. 'Did the horns and tail not clue you in or do you need some more help?' 

He ignites a ball of hellfire, just a small one, flickering brightly at the tip of his index finger.

This seems to set off a trigger because Derek snaps like a twig.

“_DEMON!_”

A hiss followed by a swipe of sharp claws shot towards him. He yelps when fangs come dangerously close to clipping his tail.

'Dude! Quit it!' 

He yowls again, more desperately this time, snapping his fingers to apparate in quick succession.

'I’m not going to hurt you! Just stop and we can talk!'

His words fall on deaf ears as Derek dug his hands and feet into the concrete wall, hoisting himself up like werewolf Spiderman. Or more like Catwoman? Technically it should be Dogman or Wolfman, the name thing definitely needs more work. What is with superheroes and their gender-binding pronouns?

_Not now, Stiles! _

He gushes as another set of claws came thundering down, grazing his right horn this time, causing him to whimper in pain.

'Will you please just STOP?' 

He flings his wrists, expecting a giant meteorite of infernal flame to manifest at the center of his palm. 

All he gets is kitten sparks that bounce off his fingers like pop-rocks. 

_Damnit, Scott!_

He wrecks his brain, there’s gotta be a way outta this before Old Yeller over here tears him to shreds. 

He screams the first thing that comes to mind.

_'I CAN HELP YOU SEE YOUR FAMILY AGAIN!'_

Silence falls over the room, neither one of them daring to move. 

Stiles takes this opportunity to run his mouth, hopefully he can babble his way to freedom.

'I can, you know?' He continues quickly, taking big gulps of air as the next words tumbled out of him. 'I know what happened to them, to your whole family.'

'I can help you see them again, if you want to.'

Derek pauses, looking up at him.

'...Do you want to?'

The werewolf drops down to the floor, looking at the ground like he could see right through it with x-ray vision.

Stiles really hadn’t expected that to work.

He’d thought Derek would laugh in his face, considering the fact that _he_ was the one who nailed their coffins to the ground.

To his surprise, the man falters, something akin to… _remorse? Guilt? _in his glowing blue eyes.

'Look, I can’t promise a resurrection, obviously, not even Jesus can pull that shite three time in a row so don't even think about it.' He hurries before Derek can change his mind.

'B-but I can grant you an audience with one member of the deceased. Just one, mind you. And only for five minutes.

If that’s what you want of course… That _is_ what you want, isn’t it?'

Silence falls upon them again, nothing but the buzzing of the radiator echoing in the room.

“…You’re a demon.” Derek declares finally.

Stiles struggles not to roll his eyes.

“Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”

'Hey, I take offence to that!' he shoots back, feigning a tone of mocked pride, “How would _you_ like it if I said all werewolves eat Bambi and turn into Marmaduke every month?'

Derek cringes but concedes, “Fair point." 

There's another moment of silence before he speaks again.

“What do you want in return?”

It’s his turn to pause, thinking carefully.

Dude’s a lot smarter than Stiles gives him credit for. Most summoners are so blinded by their desires, they rarely ask about the sacrifice in return. There’s always a price to pay and the reward is never worth the risk, even if you read the fine-print.

A plan begins to form in his mind, cruel and genius at the same time. It's a plan where he can have his cake and eat it too.

'Oh, I don't know.” He shrugs. 

'The real question is… What do you have to offer?'

Derek eyes him warily from across the room, claws now tucked safely away. 

“Nothing.”

It's a smart answer, because it’s true. No mortal alive has anything that Satan doesn't already have.

Except for their own soul.

'Everybody has something Derek,' he insists. 

'Even you.' 

The wheels in his brain are churning faster and faster now, the last of his plan coming to fruition. This was going to be _too easy_.

'Don't you want to see her? Hear her voice again?' He waves a finger and a portrait of a woman appears, a shadow of thick black hair and piercing red eyes in a fog of smoke and mirrors.

'What about _them?'_ Several more figures join the first, some of whom he noted, belonged to children.

'I’m only trying to help you Derek.' He adds. 

_And myself._

“You— You’re lying.” But Stiles catches the longing look on his face and knows with sick satisfaction, that the cat is already in the bag.

Thing is, Derek’s right. He is lying, it’s a total lie.

Necromancy is a lot more complicated and way less practical than people think. There’s no ritual for one, or virgin sacrifice or blood orphans. Just a sea of red-tape and a mountain of paperwork to swim through. Even if his application manages to go through, he still needs at least Level 4 Clearance to process the file. For guys like Danny it would be a healthy challenge, for guys like Stiles however, it's a brave but ultimately futile endeavour.   
There was no way he could bring a soul back from the underworld, and he’s definitely not going to risk his neck for Oscar the Grouch.

'Why would I gain by lying?' He huffs a long-suffering sigh.

'I don’t wanna be stuck with you anymore than you wanna be stuck with me!'

He urges 'Trust me, I wouldn't stay a day longer than I have to in this dump.'

That’s a lie too. He just doesn’t want to end up as werewolf chow, so sue him. It’s just a little white lie anyway, a means to an end and if that end is him not dying then Stiles thinks he has probable cause.

“Can you… can you really do that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. 

_Mortals, _he decides. _So easy to deceive_.

Hasn't Derek ever read Doctor Faustus? Or Volpone? Of course Stiles is lying! He lies all the time! Well, technically he conceals the truth, which really means he’s lying about lying about concealing the truth so that still counts as lying. 

He’s a demon for Lucifer’s sake! That’s what demons do!

But Derek seems to have made his mind up either way.

“All I have is what you see here. You can take anything you want, but you can’t touch my sister. She’s off-limits.”

Stiles throws his horns back to bark out a laugh. _How delightfully innocent! _

He has no doubt now that Derek’s girlfriend what's-her-name was the one in-charge of the arson and if that’s true, Stiles can see how she was tempted.

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

'What I want is you, Derek.'

“_Me?”_

'Yes, you, the one with the big teeth. More specifically, I want your body.'

“Wha—“

“Demonic posession.' Stiles cuts in, 'It’s one of my many specialties, don't worry you’ll be in good hands.' 

He smiles, feeling confident enough to pop a piece of chocolate in his mouth, savouring the taste on his tongue.

'You give me control over your body willingly, and I’ll help you see your family again.'

Derek spits, “That’s stupid. Who’s to say you won’t kill everyone within a three mile radius and frame me for it?”

Stiles pauses. He hadn’t thought of that.

'I wouldn’t do such a thing!' He spits back and that’s the first shred of truth. 

'AND' he adds, sensing that Derek was going to back out, 'I won’t do it without your permission and not for more than fifteen minutes at a time.'

'Cross my heart and hope to die.'

It's a sales pitch that Lydia had taught him, it's not technically a lie because they're already dead so it doesn't count, not really anyway.

He throws a side-eye at the werewolf who glares at him and he looked away quickly.

There’s a few more moments of heart pounding silence before Derek responds.

“Five minutes.”

“Ten!”

“Deal.”

They shake on it.

“So where do I sign.”

Stiles slaps a palm to his forehead, he’s literally the _worst _demon in all of Perdition. He could already hear Lydia's voice singing in his ear, ‘_The one rule of contract-making Stiles, is A.B.C. – ALWAYS BE CLOSING!’_

He hastens to draw up the contract and a roll of parchment whooshes into view. 

Derek watches, eyes wide.

‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ begins to loop in his mind as Stiles signs his name at the bottom of the page before handing it over to Derek. Is he Ursula in this situation? Would that make Derek Ariel? And more importantly, what does a half-werewolf half-fishman look like?

_Oh god, the mental images._

The werewolf in question raises an index finger to carve his name onto the scroll and Stiles can feel the magic thrumming back into him like a fountain, so full and warm that it made him half-drunk with power.

When he’s done, the paper glows a deep orange, their signatures lifting from the page to twist and turn into a ring before disappearing completely.

“Now what?”

He gives Derek a biting smile, '_Now we honour the contract with an exchange of bodily fluid.'_

“What! I’m not—”

Stiles doesn't give him the chance to finish, grabbing his stubbly face and pulling him down for a kiss to seal the deal. He slips in a forked tongue for good measure, sucking like an octopus before biting down harshly.

Derek stumbles backwards, swiping at him with a clawed hand. He dodges just in time, euphoric with the taste of copper in his mouth.

“_Name’s Stiles by the way_,” He laughs, eyes twinkling inky black.

“_It's been a real pleasure, Derek._”

The werewolf growls, shaking with barely contained anger.

'_Till next time, darrrling!_'

With a snap of his fingers, he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but the smell of sulfur and the taste of his own blood on Derek’s lips.


	3. Demons Rush In Where Fools Fear To Tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to rewrite this thanks to a giant gaping plot hole i missed omfg. So if it looks different, that's why lol

_‘This is stupid.’_

Stiles frowns, “No, you’re stupid.”

‘_Says the stupid one.’_

Stiles sighed but otherwise ignored the comment, slurping cherry coke through a curly straw and inhaling yet another handful of curly fries.As stipulated by the contract, he was currently residing in Derek’s body and has been for the past week. Demons lack a corporeal form on the surface, any interaction with the environment is limited to or in close proximity of their mortal. So shooting fireballs and turning invisible may be cool, but ultimately useless without a medium to which the magic can be channelled through.

Stiles burped loudly, patting himself on the stomach, or should he say, Derek’s stomach. His control slips and the werewolf regains autonomy over his right hand, slipping the cup of soda all over the floor.

Stiles just grins, feeling queasy with sugar rush. Either way, he wins.

He’s figured, rather cleverly, that since his delightful host seemed to hate him to the very core of his being, it would be silly not to use it to his advantage. Possessing his body meant spending as much time together as possible and that meant instant regret for Derek Hale. He’ll get to rack up his scorecard while simultaenously enjoying his holiday on Earth. Two birds, one stone. It’s a genius plan, one of his best if he did say so himself, Scott would be so proud.

They’re at the state fair. Trudging through crowds of people as he shoved in yet another mouthful of fries. Derek sneers in disgust.

In a way, he’s lucky the mortal is so cranky all the time. It makes his job so much easier. As if on cue, someone spills nacho cheese onto the floor, the egnormous splattering causing yellow splashbacks onto his shoes.

Stiles could actually feel the anger sizzling from the back of his head.

“Dude chill.” He whispers, “Or are you actually trying to wolf out in public?”

The anger subsides into a dull thud. Stiles shrugs, resuming down the boardwalk.

It's the one chink in his plan. Derek’s human mind is easy enough to influence but his wolf is another story entirely. It’s usually quiet but when upset… Stiles could actually _feel_ the fangs brushing against his booty. He’s never been particularly fond of canines, that was more Scott’s field.

_‘I hate you.’_

He scoffs. They both know that’s not true. Not with the way Derek had grinned earlier, when he’d knocked over all the milk bottles and the clerk had stared at them in mute horror. Stiles had slipped out and doubled over in laughter himself when an oversized teddy bear had plummeted into Derek’s hands.

He laughed even harder, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes as a group of kids stared up at the werewolf with zealous reverence, hopeful looks on their shining faces. Derek, obviously overwhelmed, had roared at them.

They scattered like cockroaches, shrieking away. Only one little boy had not moved, transfixed on the spot with fear.

Derek levels him with a cold stare. Stiles stopped laughing then. He’s about to intervene when Derek flops the giant bear into the kid’s arms before walking way steadily. The smile on his face could’ve rivalled the sun.

Stiles shook the memory away, pointing to a giant snake-like machine that towered over the sky.

“We’re riding that.”

_‘No.’_

He ignores the warning growl, ambling through the crowd before giving up and apparating to the front of the line. The growl in his mind grew louder.

‘_Stiles, you had two corndogs, a bag of popcorn, a snow cone, one giant slurpie and curly fries. __You’re **not** getting on that ride.”_

He ignores it, climbing up the steps on the platform. His skin is clammy with sweat and sugar and the oncoming breeze is a cool relief.

They climb higher.

The growl reaches a crescendo but it’s too late. The handle bars rotate down to cage around his chest and the slight breeze had roared into a heavy gust of anticipation. A rippling of screams erupted as the cart jerked forward and Stiles yelled along, lifting his arms in to the air. A flurry of movement and suddenly his heart is soaring into the sky, chugging down a loop as he gazed at tiny dots of colour from way above.

He yells louder, so loud he was sure his eardrums had popped. It was the most alive he’d ever felt in two hundred years.

In a flash, it was over.

He crawls out of the cart and heads back downstairs, knees still shaking at the effort of holding himself upright. To his benefit, he makes it back down safely and doesn’t get sick at all.

Derek’s body on the other hand… He moans, leaning over the fence and making sordid retching noises into the grass Stiles watches, feeling a little guilty as he reaches out to smooth a shaking shoulder.

Technically, werewolves can’t get sick but physics works its magic on everyone, even the supernatural. Derek groans again, face slightly green.

_‘I hate you.’_

Stiles grins weakly and blows him a kiss.

—

‘_Geez, I said I was sorry!’_

Derek stomps down the street, fuming. 

_‘It’s just a shirt, why are you so mad? _ _I’ll get you a new one!’_

Derek seethes and ignores him. If all demons were as stupid as Stiles it's a wonder they’re not all extinct yet.

They left the fairgrounds hours ago but he could still smell a heavy stench on his clothes, along with the damp yellow stain on his shoes. If Stiles wasn’t already a demon from Hell, Derek would’ve sent him there himself. What kind of moron thinks it's a good to idea to stuff his face before riding a rollercoaster? Stiles Stilinski, that's who. The idiot, acting like he’s never been to a carnival before.

‘_Look_,’ Stiles tugs at his sleeve, ‘_It’s a thrift store!’_

He's never met anyone who's gone gaga over Good Will before, he's momentarily distracted and the demon takes this opportunity to propel his legs towards the entrance. He allows the demon to take over, anger momentarily assuaged from the child-like wonderment in those honey brown eyes. He’s weak, he knows.

It should bother him more, this whole demon possession thing. He’s seen The Exorcist, it never end well. Yet Stiles is the furthest thing from a demon he’s ever met. He’s definitely mischievous and has no concept of personal space but compared to some of the humans he’s met, Stiles is practically a saint. It’s almost a relief, leaving his body to someone else. He won’t have to pay attention; doesn’t need to look over his shoulder, listen out for dangers, because Stiles doesn’t do any of these things. Comparatively, he’s a lot more normal than Derek is.

He can’t help but laugh at that.

Pitting himself against a demon, how far has he fallen?

He doesn't know how much time passes before he’s thrust back into reality, feet planted firmly on the floor. Stiles floats in the air slightly above him, a shy smile on his face.

_‘You like it?’_ He asks, eyes darting nervously.

Derek stares into the full length mirror. He has on a black leather jacket fitted snugly across his shoulders, a tight but incredibly soft maroon Henley peeks out from his chest, along with a black pair of loafers had replaced his stained shoes.

“Yea…” He breathes, “Yea, I do.”

It’s an imposter, Derek thinks. The man looking back at him is cool and calm, even suave with his haughty sideway smirk and aviator sunglasses perched low on his foread. The face that glares back at him was the face of a man who knew what he was doing, who was not afraid of anything and who would live his life doing whatever he wanted without ever fearing the consequences of his actions.

_It’s not me. _But he has no idea who he is either, so it didn't bother him much. Laura had bought all his clothes and he didn’t care what he was wearing. _They’re just clothes_, he reasons; you wear them to blend in, if you don't you stand out. He finds he likes the man in the mirror, thinks if he pretends hard enough, he could actually see himself

‘_Good_.’ Stiles beams down at him and he’s a little taken aback when there isn’t a reflection. ‘_Let’s get outta here, I’m hungry.’_

Derek doesn't point out the sheer amount of junk food the demon had consumed mere hours before but wisely keeps his mouth shut and is about to shrug off the jacket when someone stops him.

‘_I said,’_ Stiles looks at him significantly. ‘_Let’s get outta here._’

His face scrunches up in confusion, "You mean—"

_‘Yes.’_ Stiles cuts in, a brilliant smile flashing across his face, orange eyes glowing in the dim light.

He frowns and shakes his head. "I can’t do that. That’s stealing from charity, it’s wrong."

_‘Depends on how you define stealing._’ Stiles replies, still smiling. _‘No one will notice, I promise. There’s a tip jar at the counter, just come back another day and pay the full amount if you’re that worried.’_

Derek shrugs off the jacket angrily, he’s never heard anything so stupid in his life. Before he can get one arm through the sleeve however, Stiles had slipped into his body, pushing him out of the way.

He watches like a backseat driver as Stiles darts out of the store, heart pounding in his chest.

They would've made it too, if Stiles hadn't trip over a greeting card stand at the entrance, triggering a silent alarm. 

“You! Hey you!”

_‘GO!’ _Stiles roars in his ears and he obeys, practically leaping down the boulevard. He doesn’t stop until they reach the highway, panting slightly and hoping that no one had seen them.

Swallowing a gulp, he murmurs in a rush “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done!”

‘_I know.’ _Stiles grins, unrepentant.

‘_But it’s fun, huh?_’

* * *

That night, he dreams.

It always starts out the same. He’s in school, walking down the hallway as a blur of faces rush past him. Basketball practice is in five minutes and he’s already late. He jogs past the cafetaria and some of the blurred faces call out to him, holding out their hands for a high-five. Then the principal, Gerard Argent, strolls into view, whispers something to his ear and ushers him to the office.

Gerard gestures to a phone on his desk and Derek picks up gingerly, surprised to hear the Sheriff’s voice on the other end. He can’t make out the words except, _“Sorry, son.”_ Before the line goes dead and he’s left staring at the shiny black speaker.

The world begins to swim, dragging Derek along with it.

It’s like someone has changed the filter and colour bleeds out from his surroundings, staining everything in shades of black and white. He’s in his room, the same posters on the wall, the same mess on the floor.Except, everything’s in greyscale and he struggles to recall the pattern of the wallpaper, the color of his bedsheets, his desk, even the curtains are stained black, sunlight pouring in sharp contrasts of white. It’s a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something very important.

He flees to the kitchen.

The smell of something burning hits him immediately but Mom is too busy to notice. There’s the sound of rhythmic chopping and Derek spots the knife gleaming sharply in her hand. 

She stands with her back facing him but turns with a smile when he calls her. 

_“Oh, Derek.” _She sighs with exasperated fondness, red eyes flashing like the heart of a blood orange.

_“Look at what you’ve done.”_

The pan on the stove begins to sizzle before toppling over, flames spreading up the wooden cabinets, licking at the ceiling.

He hears Kate’s indistinct laughter as the fire bursts into a fiery vortex, engulfing his mother like a giant snake.

He watches, unable to move, unable to scream. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it can’t be real._

The house begins to crumble, fire spreading to the carpets. But there’s no sound, no splinting of timber or breaking of furniture. It’s so eeriely quiet he might as well be watching a silent movie. 

The black and white filter chars into a yellowish sepia and he waits patiently.

Sure enough, the fire tickles at his toes, crawls up his thigh and up into his lungs. 

_“Oh, Derek.”_

His mother’s voice echoes from amongst the smoke. A blackened body rises from the wreckage and presses into him, followed by another and then another.

He flings his arms open and holds them there till he can’t breathe.

_“What have you done?”_

—

‘_WAKE UP!_’

With a wheeze, he’s awake.

He swallowed, gulping in lungfuls of air. Kate’s laughter still fresh in his mind.

“Stiles?” He calls, wondering if this was still part of the dream.

Long fingers splay across his back, sweaty but firm. Bright amber eyes squint at him through the darkness.

‘_Who else_?’ the demons huffed, voice still thick with sleep. ‘You were yelling in your sleep, why the hell were you yelling in your sleep? And more importantly, do you know how difficult it is to wake up a yelling werewolf that wants to carve your insides like origami?’

Derek doesn’t know how to answer. Do demons have nightmares too?

“Sorry.” He chews out.

Stiles shakes his head with disbelief but apparates close enough that their shoulders bump together. It’s several more minutes before Derek has his heart rate back to normal again.

“I’m fine” He says, keeping his voice stoic.

Stiles’s head lifted from his shoulder and the demons yawns pathetically. _'_Right, so you’re better now?'

He nods.

'You sure? Hundred percent tip top break your mother’s back sure?'

He freezes a little but nods.

'Right, okay. So do you think you could let go now? I’m kind of numb from the waist down.’

Derek stares in shock at the hand that had somehow snaked itself around Stiles’ waist. He scrambles back quickly.

“Sorry.”

‘S’alright sourwolf, just go back to sleep. You’ve gotta get up again in like, three hours.’

Derek glances over at the alarm and groaned quietly, Stiles was right. He lies back down on the mattress and wills himself back to sleep. Stiles floats away to his corner of the room, laying on what appeared to be an imaginary bed of air.

They settle into an uncomfortable silence.

For the first time since he’s met Stiles, he wishes he’d go away, at least temporarily. He can’t be vulnerable with Stiles in the same room. Laura’s not here to calm him with her alpha powers and there’s no pill strong enough to knock him out. His exercise machine makes too much noise and he can’t leave the apartment without Stiles following close behind.   
Feeling trapped, he slid off the mattress and padded over to the kitchenette for a drink. The glass of water does nothing for his nerves and he paces to and fro from the front door. He checks the smoke detector, double-checks the locks on all the window and doors before and re-checking them again.

Stiles stares at him like a madman.

‘WOULD YOU STOP THAT?’ He hisses, thin orange slits piercing through the darkness. 'If **you** cant sleep then **I **can’t sleep! How am I suppose to get my beauty rest? This doesn't just happen, you know?” Stiles gestures to himself, tail swishing in irritation.

Derek snorts but returns to the mattress.

He doesn’t close his eyes for fear of what he’ll see so he keeps them wide open, counting the seconds that tick by, the number of inhales and exhales and how long he can hold breath before his lungs relent and he has to suck in deep gulps of air. Every breath becomes more laborous, every muscle in his body under strenuous torture. He digs blunt nails into his forearm and pulls down, red streaks appearing in dull bursts of pain to remind him that he’s still alive. _Don't think about, don't think about, they’re just nightmares, it’s just a nightmare. Not real, they’re not real. They cant be real. It can’t—_

“OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!” Stiles yells in exasperation before apparating above him, body draped heavily on top of his own. ‘If you have any violent objections, better voice them out now!’

It’s ironic because before he can speak, Stiles had plunged into his body and completely taken over.

Like bolts popping out, all the strings in his body cuts loose and he’s falling back into a pool of blissful nothingness. He wonders if this is how Alice must have felt, dropping down into the rabbithole. There’s nothing to catch him, no safety net or trampoline to break his fall, just a slow descent into an abyss. 

He likes it this way. He’s never been afraid of falling, falling’s not the problem, it’s when he stops and lands that it becomes a problem.

He grumbled something about personal space before closing his eyes, the sugary sweet scent of tangerines and cinnamon thick on his tongue as he fell back asleep. 


	4. Company Loves Misery

Stiles isn’t going to lie, he’s having second thoughts.

Now he knows with startling clarity, that Derek could not have anything to do with his family’s murder.

The boy doesn't have a mean bone in his body, it _has_ to be Kate’s fault, that conniving little snake. Stiles had noted, with great satisfaction that her name has been on the Reaper’s hot list for a while now but must have slipped through the cracks somehow since the thirteenth floor is always so understaffed.

Stiles would only be too happy to welcome her at the gates of hell. What comes around always comes back around after all.

In the meantime however, Derek’s a walking time bomb. Just one false move away from self-destruction.

His expiry date has been confirmed, just eleven days from now. Their contract will end and the reaper will ascend to fetch his soul. By then Stiles will have fulfilled his duties as G.D. and returned back to his department safe and sound 

But Stiles can’t help the tight squeezy feeling he has in chest, he think its guilt but isn’t sure. Demons aren’t programmed to feel guilt, nor passion or compassion. All of which he has felt for Derek Hale at some point in the past three weeks.

Too many things don't add up and they weigh heavily on his mind.

For one, Stiles hasn't seen hide nor hair of Derek’s guardian angel since day one. Usually, GDs and GAs fight over their host like prime real estate, yet he seen a glittering halo anywhere. Was upper management in Heaven just as bad as Hell?

For another, if Derek is truly innocent then why was he headed downstairs? And why assign him a G.D so close to his expiry date? Was it just to torture a man knocking on death’s door? But Derek does a good job of making himself miserable without Stiles’ help, why did Deucalion assign him here in the first place? 

The question swirl in his mind like an unclogged toilet. He tries to go through all the information but it only make his head hurt, as if there was something blocking him from putting it all together.

Maybe he should head back to pinch Scott for more information, maybe snoop around a little, see what he can dig up. Maybe Danny will throw him a bone and help him out, if he begs long enough.

For now however, he has a much more pressing problem on his hands and from the look of it, it seemed a very hard one indeed. 

He’s in Derek’s body, staring down at a very noticeable bulge between his legs.

There’s still twenty minutes before the alarm rings and he can’t leave without waking Derek’s consciousness at the same time. 

It’s catch 22. Either leave and wake Derek up in a fit of awkward anger or stick a hand down his pants and wake Derek up in fit of righteous anger. 

He does neither, staring up at the ceiling like it had done him a great injustice.

He’s forgotten that mortals have… _urges_ of their own. He’s never had to deal with bodily functions since demons are the physical embodiment of sin itself. Harbouring lust would be giving away what they need from humans or like stealing someone’s curly fries and then spitting it out again. It wouldn't make sense.

He lifts the collar of his shirt and peeks down.

Maybe he could focus on somewhere else? Maybe somewhere not so south of the border? It would take the edge off at least, Stiles doesn't think he can endure it much longer. 

Calloused hands begin at the base of his neck, tracing the edges of his collarbone before dipping down a solid chest. They extend towards the sides of his ribs where it rises and falls with every steady breath.

He gasps, finger ghosting around a hardened nub. It’s a slight movement but the sensation rocks over him in waves, like nothing he’s ever experienced before. He rubs at it again, harder this time and both at once.

Seeing stars, Derek’s body contracts in tandem with his fingers, muscles tightening at the intrusion, toes curled at the edge of the mattress. He bucks up involuntarily and nearly chokes on his own saliva. 

_This is a bad, bad idea._

He’d thought focusing on upstairs would take the load off downstairs but it’s only made everything worse. Now there’s something sticky oozing out and he’s feeling even worse than before.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He pounces out, still reeling.

_“This is— Wait, I can explain! It’s, its— It’s not my fault! You woke up like this, I swear!”_

Derek squints at him, eyes still thick with sleep. He tilts his head to the side and Stiles would find that adorable if he wasn't about to be werewolf chow. 

After the silence drags on for too long, he scrambles to add, ‘_Dude, I’m real sorry but you were asleep! What’s a guy suppose to do? I didn't wanna wake you so I thought I’ll give you a hand. Get it? A hand? Ahem—I mean yea… Anyway, I think I made it worse and if you die from this I promise—‘_

“Why’d you stop.”

_‘—that I’ll never forgive myself and— Eh?’_

He stares.

Derek stares back, his head tilted but his eyes are now glowing an eerie blue.

_‘But I thought you ha— Uh, I mean— Er,_’

“_Huh_.” He finishes, no longer in command of the english language.

The sly smirk makes his head spin and it’s an effort just to hold himself upright.

“C’mon, c’mere…” Derek beckons with an outstretched hand.

The mattress dips with both their weights.

“_I shouldn’t— I mean I want to but this isn’t— Demons are supposed to— Not with mortals—Mhmm…‘ _Derek has heard enough excuses and angles their lips together to silence him.

_‘I really—Mhmm… Shouldn’t—Mhmm!’_

He thinks about Scott’s disappointment, about Deucalion’s wrath, about his own impending doom.

Then Derek drops his boxers and he stops thinking altogether. 

“I know.” Words tickled by his ear, hot breaths moaning down his neck.

_“But it’s fun, huh?”_

* * *

“Something’s off.”

Scott frowns at him, picking up a large pail as he ambles across to the gate.

“With you?”

“No.” Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Not with me, with Derek! I’ve been talking about Derek for the past twenty minutes Scott, weren’t you listening?”

Scott shrugs before heaving the pail over Fluffy forelegs. The hellhound gave a yip of unhappiness but otherwise did not move, all three droopy pair of eyes looking over at Stiles with sadness.

It sends him sniggering on the floor. Scott shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Make yourself useful and lend me a hand would ya?”

Stiles is about to retort something about the devil’s workshop but stops and picks up a rag anyway, sighing dramatically. He did not come all the way just to bathe a dog damnit. 

They work in companionable silence, Scott scrubbing the long tufts of fur with a giant broom and Stiles mopping up the excess water that dribbled everywhere with a tattered piece of cloth.

“It’s funny you should mention,” his best friend pauses, tutting Fluffy on the nose when it sneezed. "I checked with Deaton and the guys upstairs, but no one has seen or heard of a Derek Hale.”

“What.” Stiles turned sharply. “What do you mean they’ve never heard of him? He’s headed upstairs in ten days! Says so in his file.”

“Maybe he’s headed here—“

“No.” Stiles shook his head vehemently, “There’s no way he’s headed for the Pit. Only sinners can enter the Pit.”

“Stiles, hate to break it to ya bud but dude killed his whole family. If that’s not a trip to Hell then I don’t know what— 

“That wasn't his fault” he replies angrily, dunking the rag so hard into the water that it splashed everywhere “It’s Kate. Kate’s the one behind all this. If I ever see her soul lingering around here I’m gonna—“

“Dude, breathe.” Scott pauses in mid-scrub and made in and out gestures with his hands like they were in a lamaze class.

Stiles ignores him, brushing the coat so roughly that Fluffy winced and gave a low whine.

“Oh, shut up you big goober.”

“Hey now, don't take it out on him. Besides, it’s not just the fire. There was another murder too. Some girl at school—”

“Paige? No way, that was a mercy kill! It wasn’t his fault, if anything he was trying to save—“

Scott gets a constipated look on his face. “A life is a life Stiles, you know I don't make the rules.”

“…I know.” He does know, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

“Cheer up man.” Scott grins, splashing a stream of water in his direction, hitting him square in the face.

He grins, dumping the whole pail at his best friends head in retaliation.It misses and Scott squirts yet another blast of water in his face. He ducks behind Fluffy’s enormous tail and grabs the hose from behind, firing it from across the floor. His best friend laughs and rams into him as they both fall to the ground wrestling for the rubber tube.

Ten minutes later, they call for a truce, panting helplessly against the hellhound’s flank, completely soaked from head to toe. With a wave of his hand, wind begins to blow and in less than a minute they were completely dry again. Fluffy was too, looking more like a poofy fluffball than a guardian of Hell.

“Why do you care anyway?” Scott asks after they’ve both caught their breath.

It’s Stiles’ turn to shrug and he carefully averts his eyes.

“No really, what’s it to you? Wouldn’t it be better if he’s a sinner? That way, its easier to torture him right? Deucalion might even give you a pay raise!”

It's definitely probably but the thought makes him sick to his stomach and his face must give it away because Scott gets that same constipated look on his face again.

“Don’t tell me…” Scott’s eyes widens to the size of Pringles.

“You like him?” Once again his face must have betrayed him because Scott looked completely scandalised.

“Duuudddeee.”

“Oh don’t even.” Stiles barks out a bitter laugh, “You know demons can’t feel love, only lust. I’m just using him to get a promotion obviosuly, like you said. Who’s ever heard of demons falling in love with mortals any—

“I didn’t say love.”

“—way, there’s no point—" Before he can get another word in edgewise Scott had already stood up and was twirling around the floor like an out of control spinning top.

“I never said love, you said love.” Scott yells, jumping up and down excitedly. “L-O-V-E love!” He repeated in a sing-song voice.

Stiles holds his head in his hands, wishing for the first time that he could send Scott to the Pit.

“Deucalion’s so gonna kill you.” Scott continued to sing.

“You’re in love Stiles! Stiles is in L-O-V—“

“Are you trying to get me killed?” He hissed, slapping a hand over the gatekeeper’s mouth before letting go with a desperate sigh.

“I can’t be in love with him.” He bends to look at the floor, “I just can’t.”

“He’s gonna die in ten days Scott! I can’t save him without Deucalion killing me and there’s no guarantee he’ll make it. But if I don't, he’ll die anyway. It’s catch 22.” He breathes, counting his fingers. Ten, they were all still there.

“Catch wha—“

“Catch 22 Scott, like a rock and a hard place or the devil and the deep blue—“

“Love will find a way.” Scott nods. 

Stiles laughs. He cant help it, that’s such a Scott thing to say. Even after being the only resident of the In-Between who’s never crossed over, he still believes in happy endings. Even after Allison had moved on to the afterlife, he still believes in true love.

“Love will find a way.” he repeats, more firmly this time.

Stiles would like a minute for rebuttal but the gatekeeper grabs him roughly by the ears and pulls him down to eye level. The look on Scott’s face is so stern that Stiles is taken aback and begins to nod back instinctively, as if commandeered by a higher power.

He’s unsure of what he’s giving consent to but Scott smiles brilliantly and lets go.

_“You will find a way.” _


	5. All Pain, No Gain

_“So DC or Marvel?”_

Derek sighs, dropping the load of boxes harder than was necessary. Stiles had asked him the same question for the past fifteen minutes, cycling through an array of unrelated queries for the past five hours. Five. It was driving Derek insane. He’s at work, he doesn't need his colleagues staring like a he’s nut job that escaped Arkham. And for that matter, DC all the way. Obviously.

The demon on the other hand seemed thoroughly unconcerned with his declining mental state, apparating to the checklist and informing casually that there was another load he’d missed.

_“I’m more of a Marvel fan myself.”_

Derek grunts in disapproval, what would a demon know about superheroes?

_“What are you doing?”_

Derek huffed another sigh of irritation, willing laser beams to shoot out from his eyeballs. He’s been moving boxes to and fro from a van to the back of a shop called Bill’s Furniture House for the past three hours, what the hell did Stiles think he was doing?

_“I meant, what are you doing working here? Don't you have a degree in architecture?"_

He does... He did. He made it all the way to fourth year in a direct honest program then dropped out in the last year.

In the final semester, they’d been assigned a graded internship on top of a thesis paper. He’d applied to a construction company. Everything was going great until one of the excavation sites caught on fire.

He wasn't even supposed to be there that day but the coordinator had been on leave and left him to his own devices. He’d thought it was a good idea, somewhat cathartic to watch a vacant lot transform into something new, something that was useful, something that would be given a chance to begin again.

Then one of the rollers had exploded, a loud ‘pop’ sounding throughout the area. A small fire broke out and was put out in mere seconds but not for Derek.  
For him, it spread out across the ground, burning up patches of grass, rolling over the mound and onto his feet, a big bird like thing that wrapped its wings around him, soaking into his skin, turning his bones to ash.

They found him twenty minutes later, nearly drowning in the cement mixer. Laura pulled him out after that.

He doesn't say anything. He wonders if Stiles knows and is deliberately being an ass or if he really has no clue. He seems to know an awful lot though, not just about him but werewolves in general, probably more than he does.

“What about you? How’d you become a demon?”

_“I… I don't remember.”_

Derek is about to retort when he turns and catches the look on Stiles’ face, heavy with concentration.

_“There was a boy”_ he says, amber eyes flickering. _“He was dying.”_

_“I tried to save him... But I failed, he died in the end. I don't remember what happened after that.”_ Stiles says sadly, _“When I woke up, I was already in Hell.”_ the orange glow in his eyes goes completely, the inky blackness becoming impossibly huge.

“Hey,” Derek tries, unsure of what to say, “It’s alright. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to.”

_“But I want to.”_ Stiles cocks his head do the side, _“I want you to know.”_

_“Don't you?”_

Derek opened his mouth to respond but closed it again. Nothing he wanted to say seemed like the right answer. Instead, he resumes packing and unpacking the boxes and Stiles resumes playing twenty questions/ asking random question in rapid fire succession.

Derek only answers ‘yes’ or no and they pass the day in otherwise amicable silence.

* * *

They were on their way to the diner when Derek catches a whiff of wolfsbane from the dark alleyway.

He freezes immediately, eyes searching for an escape route. There’s none.

Stiles frowns at him _“Whats wro—"_

“Well, well, well. Look who let the dogs out tonight.” A voice booms from the darkness.

Derek doesn't know who the man is but he does recognize the rifle in his hands, the taser tied to his belt. 

_“Dog jokes, really?_” Beside him, Stiles rolls his eyes

A chuckle is the only warning he gets before they’re surrounded. Or technically Derek is surrounded. Stiles won’t be able to help in this situation. Derek sighs but shifts into a fighting stance, if he dies in an unnamed street corner at least he’ll have a demon to guide his soul to Hell. Its not much but the thought is comforting nonetheless.

From behind him, a nasally voice echoed mockingly “Where’s your alpha, little pup?”

"Yea, where is he?” another voice echoed

“We’ll let you go if you tell us.” They nod at each other. 

“Unless you’ll rather die tonight. We can arrange too.” The first hunter from before says, cocking the gun and aiming it square at his chest, no doubt loaded to the brim with wolfsbane."

He stays perfectly still. He could take these guy down no problem but the ones behind will be trickier, and they could have backup hiding elsewhere.

The hunter takes a step forward and Derek pounces.

The awaiting shot misfires, hitting one of the hunters behind him. He reaches out to grab a neck, claws slicing easily through the soft flesh. Two down.

Still grabbing onto the lifeless body like a shield, shuffling backwards quickly as a storm of bullets rained from infront. One of the hunters gets close enough to sink a dagger into his abdomen. Its sinks deep enough to potrude from the other end of his spine. He pants, adrenaline pumping and sinks his claws into the hunter’s hand, severing it from the wrist. He shucks out the dagger, hand still attached, its not laced with poison so the wound begins to mend immediately but his back hits a ton of bricks.

A dead-end.

They advance towards him, beady eyes ruddy with bloodlust. He looks up at the night sky, praying to a god he doesn't believe in.

_“Derek! Let me, give me!”_

He doesn't need to be told twice. He’s suddenly back in the theatre, watching with detached fascination as sparks ignite from the palm of his hand, fanning into twin spheres of fire and ash. There’s a smile on a face that he recognises as his own. 

Screams and smoke floods the air and then he's on his feet, running again.

They’re barely down the next street before Stiles tumbles out of him, falling to the ground in a heap of gasps and spasms, limbs twitching madly on the asphalt.

“Stiles?” He asks, worry seeping into his voice. 

_“I’m fine."_ Stiles says plainly, voice trembling "_Just outta juice.”_

Derek nods, lending him an arm. The demon usually floated in the air but it was clear that even levitation was too much for him right now.

They reach the main street, roads and sidewalks busy with traffic. The hunters wouldn't dare do anything out in the open. They lean back against a storefront, both catching their breaths

_“I need to go back. To hell, I mean”_ Stiles says _“Just for a little while. To recharge my mojo.”_

Derek nods. 

_“I need to go back”_ Stiles repeats more firmly, turning his head to squint at him. 

Derek nods again.

_“Derek, can you let go of me please?”_

The hand he has on Stiles’ shoulder shrinks back on reflex.

“Sorry.” He bites out, feeling flushed. _It's the adrenaline_, he decides, _Just the adrenaline._

Stiles stands, straightening his black tie and smoothing down his crumpled white shirt, which was now almost entirely black with soot.

_“I’ll be back, I promise.”_ Stiles says, biting his lip worriedly.

Derek nods for the third time, doing his best from reaching out. _It’s the adrenaline, _A voice scolds. 

With a whoosh, he’s gone, leaving Derek in the crowded street. He’s surrounded by people but has never felt more alone. He takes a deep breath, then another and another, until all he can picture is a forest of tangerines and cinnamon sticks.

He stands, dusts himself off and heads back to the apartment. 

—

He about to unlock the door when Stile’s voice blares in his mind like a siren

_“RUN!’_

He’s got the key in the lock before bullets are parading through the door. He dodges to the side and out the fire escape but not before one of the bullets grazes his arm. It doesn’t heal. 

He grits his teeth but theres no time to think now, Stiles was still barking orders from above him

_“They’ve got snipers on the roof. More in the alley. Go by the back!” _

Figures why Derek couldn’t smell them. He scales the wall via the back, blending into the shadows behind the chained fence. There’s sirens blazing from five blocks away, the police will be here soon. The hunters can’t stay for much longer but neither can he. It’s nearly one in the morning, the streets will be empty and the subway too dangerous. There’s nowhere he could go.

_“Three blocks down, turn left and keep walking.”_

He moves on auto-pilot, glancing furtively at every shadow, senses on high alert. Momentarily out of danger, he glances at the cut on his arm. Its not deep but the posion had spread so the entire area was a spiderweb of black veins. He’ll have to chop it off.

_Too bad_, he thinks. He really liked having two hands.

A cruiser approaches as he reaches the next street and he’s afraid it’ll stop but it doesn't, driving right past him. He follows Stiles’ instructions, finding to his amazement, they had reached a tunnel under the causeway. How was it that a demon knew about this place?

_ “Grab those.”_ Stiles says pointing to a dumpster with used clothing sticking out.

He hauls the trash can open, stench of decay clogging up his nostrils as he pulled the cloth out from the depths. It’s a bedspread of some sort, brown with stains and slightly wet. He drapes it across his shoulders and tries not to breathe. Stiles is waiting for him, walking a few steps ahead.

His powers must still be weak. Derek thinks absently. They reach the embankment, a few other homeless people are camped out below the bridge, an array of tents and makeshift shelters littering the shore.

They keep walking.

Stiles brings him to the other side of the bridge where the water is closer, the soil below his feet is damp but its not as crowded near the highway. The demon plops down on a patch of dried grass behind the concrete pillar and Derek follows suit.

“How’d you know about this place?” He asks, now that they were out of earshot.

Stiles purses his lips, hesitant and almost apologetic, _“A guy I haunted ended up killing himself here.”_

“He must’ve been a bad person.”

Stiles seemed surprised before nodding.

_“Child molester.” _

“Mhm.” There’s not much to say to that.

A tussled old lady brambles her way to their spot. Spotting him, she coos a little, dragging her tongue through the air and making kissy faces in the air.

_“Sod off Jackson.”_

The old lady pauses as if struck, Derek can see the pale blue of her eyes darkening to encompass the entire iris. 

“You’re gonna regret this Stilinski,” she says in baritone, “I’m telling Deucalion and then its back to the Pits for you!”

Stiles only grinned lazily, flicking his wrist offhandedly. A gust of air slices through the air, the old woman seemed to gasp before knocking back and falls into the river.

It’s cruel and unkind but Derek laughs despite himself and Stiles joins in a second later, staring at him in shock. Jackson, who he presumed was in the old woman’s body, stood up mechanically, shaking a fist before stomping off, splashing a trail of water behind everywhere.

They laughed even harder.

Then Derek chokes on his own spit and black bile splutters from his lips. 

Stiles hushes him.“_Let me see.”_

He’s asking to be polite, he could easily have taken control and Derek would’ve let him. He peels off the brown cloak before shrugging off the leather coat. Rolling up his sleeve, he bit back a groan. The wound was infected now, the reddish gash darkening to a deep mauve, the black spiderwebs had thickened into branches, they stretched from his forearm all the way up his shoulder, tiny black hooks at the base of his neck.

“_Check your jeans pocket.”_

"I'm not in the mood Stiles." he says in confusion.

_"Haha. Funny man. I meant your jacket pocket"_

He does as he's told, watching with amusement as he palms out a cold metal object. It's a bullet and now in the quiet of the night, he can smell wolfsbane and gunpowder.

Stiles grins, obviously pleased with himself “_Snagged it from one of the goons back in the alleyway. Aren’t you proud of me? Saved your life thrice in one day, that’s gotta be a record or something right?’_

Derek laughs, a whizzy sound followed by a choking of black bile. Stiles holds out a finger, a tiny flame dancing in the pale moonlight. 

He lets Stiles take control, slipping into his body as easy as breathing. Deft fingers shake out powder from the bullet, setting it aflame before rubbing it all over his arm. It pops and sizzles on the surface of his skin before disappearing beneath a a web of blackened veins, closing up like petals of a flower before there’s nothing left but smooth marble skin.

Stiles watches with fascination but its not Derek’s first encounter with wolfsbane and he suspects it wont be the last. He focuses on his breathing instead, still staring at the little point of flame on Stiles’ finger. He grabs it without meaning to. Such a small thing it was, to cause such devastation

“It won’t hurt.” Stiles whispers, “Go ahead.”

He does, traces a finger along the bony wrist, crawling up to wrap themselves around his palm. A blunt fingernail scrapes against the edge of the flame and Derek hesitates. 

“Go on,” Stiles urges “It won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He crosses their fingers together, heart going still as the tiny flame flickered and sparked, spreading onto his own, licking up his arm till his whole body felt warm with heat.

It’s exactly like his dream and yet he finds the flames so strangely soothing, like he could fall asleep while his body burnt slowly but it would be okay, it would be alright.

Stiles grins up at him, full of mischief.

“I promised, didn't I?”

Derek grabs him close, smiling into the kiss.


	6. Seek and Ye Shall Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is only the beginning
> 
> *sips tea
> 
> oh and some gore in this chapter, just a little bit. Also tissues. 
> 
> Toodles~

_“Hey you're back!_”

Derek looks up at Stiles from across the room.

“Yea.”

_“Can I—“_

He nods once and the demon settles into his body, a hearty sigh escaping from their lips.

They were in a dingy motel room just outside of town, nothing but a bed and two armchairs in the empty room. Derek had gone back to the apartment earlier to grab his duffle bag, the one he kept all his personals, before bolting out the window at breakneck speed. The places had been thrashed and he wasn't sticking around to find out who had done it. By the hunters or by the police? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t much care. The entire floor had been cordoned off, black and yellow striped tape eveywhere.  
He hopes Mrs Hopkins is alright, she’s the only person he'll regret leaving behind.

“I got fired.” He informs.

Jeff had been the one to fire him, having taken over the store a few days back. Derek had turned up at midday, reciting the excuse he had on hand but the co-owner had turned him away without looking up, muttering something about crackheads and angel dust.

‘_It was a shitty job anyway.’_ Stiles replies, not missing a beat.

He hums in agreement but doesn’t respond. They lay there on the yellowing bedsheets, listening to the quiet fall of rain outside the tinted windows.

_What’s done is done_, he thinks. The hunters will find him soon and something tells him he won't be as lucky this time. He knows, of course he knows. They've been tailing him for months now, it was only a matter of time before they followed Laura's paper trail and found her too. He's known, he's always known. Just like how he knows Stiles is lying to him.

He’s not stupid, things that are too good to be true often are. His suspicion was confirmed last night in the alleyway, when conjuring fire had nearly drained the demon to the point of fainting.

There was no way Stiles could reanimate the dead. It would only be an illusion, even if he had.

Derek knew that months ago, but signed the contract anyway. Why? Well, being a slave to a demon was still better than being a slave to his past. And if it wasn’t, he didn't think he would live long enough to find out.

He had nothing left to lose.

“Can I?”

Stiles nodded enthusiastically, stretching out long fingers before lighting the tips on fire.

He watches the red flames flicker like a tiny ballerina, illuminating large shadows on the whitewashed walls. He hasn’t been this close to an open flame since the fire and his heart flaps wildly in his chest. Stiles overlaps their hands, tracing the bony edges, stroking the delicate wrist. The flames trickle onto his own, dancing lightly on the surface of his skin, drawing patterns on the grooved knuckles.

He connects their bodies together, holding Stiles so tight that a human would’ve chocked. But the demon only smiles knowingly as the flames followed suit and blazed a trail in the small space between them.

It’s exactly like his dream and yet, nothing like it at all.

Stiles moans, low and slow.

“Can I?” He asks again, his own voice husky with desire.

_‘Tak— Take it. Please just… take it._’ Stiles sobs into his chest, writhing like a viper below him.

Derek grabs him by the horns and pulls down. Hard. 

Their lips meet somewhere in the middle and his wolf sings in his chest. The fire was stronger now, losing its orangey glow and turning into a deep blue.

They pull apart, panting.

“Breathe through your nose” He instructs, clawed hands tugging roughly at the ribbed horns, bringing the demon closer to connect their mouths again.

Stiles seems to be shaking, struggling against him. The black forked tail swishes violently in the air, poking him in the back.

With inhuman speed he grabs at it, squeezing it tightly.

Stiles bites on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. It heals instantly but the taste of copper floods their mouths, the scent of tangerine and cinnamon so heavy that he could barely breathe. Loosening his hold, he strokes the black whip between his palm lazily. Stiles moans into the kiss and that’s as much encouragement as Derek needs.

He strokes it harder this time, stretching the entire length from the base of his spine to the forked edge, rubbing lightly at the pointy tip. That earns him a choking gasp and a roll of hips, toes curling as Stiles threw his head back, onyx horns drilling holes into the headboard.

He rolls his own hips in tandem, grasping at his humanity. The wolf was purring now, baying for release.

_“Take it, take it— Derek!”_ Stiles mumbles incoherently, Derek surges up and rocks their bodies together, tugging at the forked coiled around his wrist til Stiles screams and falls back upon the pillows, eyes wide and blown out.

The room is quiet, the sticky musk of their bodies petering out into ragged breaths of after glow.

Derek feels like he’s floating on a cloud and wonders if this is what heaven feels like. He snots into the pillow, dragging the demon’s limp body against his own, aligning them like the constellations in the night sky.

_“Mmm… That was uh... I mean, good. Yea, real good. Great job there big guy, ready for round two?”_

Derek smiles.

Heaven only exists because Stiles is here, not the other way around.

“Go to sleep.” He urges, dragging the blanket over them and ignoring the sticky sensation in his jeans. That could wait until morning.

_"Surs all good, g’nite Der.”_

“... Night, Stiles”.

—

He wakes up to a sneeze, a pounding headache and a swimming vision.

_"Derek?"_

A cup filled to the brim, threatening to overflow, floodgates opened to let his brains slosh out like jello through a sieve. 

_“Derek? Derek! What’s wrong? Is it your arm?”_

He shakes his head, black fur sprouting from the sides of his face. It wasn’t the bullet, something else was ripping through him.

Throwing his head back in pain, he bit down hard enough to taste his own blood on his lips.

_"Derek! Fuck, fuck! Derek, please answer me!"_

He feels it before his brain can process the new information, a peach pit stuck in his throat but he can't spit it out. It forces down his throat, whips the air from his lungs

“LAURA!”

He screams her name over and over, gasping for air as the heat rose to envelope his chest. The last of her memories play in slow motion, the smell of rain, a forest of trees, the blood moon high in the sky. His own face stares back at him, tight arms around his back, a final kiss on his cheek before she got on the plane and flew away forever. Gone was her luscious brown hair, gone were her teasing smiles and effortless laughter, gone was _her._

All that remained - a flash of mangled fur and ash, bone-white.

Uncle Peter.

“Laura…” He chokes back a sob, the reality of her death picking at his chest like a sculptor with a block of ice.

_“Derek, they’re red. Your eyes are red, please, tell me what's happening!” _He quivers, biting back protruding fangs. He can’t lash out here, he might hurt Stiles.

He can’t keep it in either, not anymore.

“Do it.’ He grabs onto Stiles’ forearm, sharp nails digging in deep.

"Do it, take me.”

He does.

For a tumultuous second, a demon and an alpha wrestle for domination over his mind, tearing and rolling over each other like washing machines in a laundromat, going round and round in circles. He feels like a guest in his own body, intruding on a family feud he has no part of. When he’s finally forced to leave, Stiles is panting, making wrenching motions over the dresser.

_“It’s too strong.”_

_I’m too weak, I'm sorry._

Derek knows that feeling only too well.

“C’mere.” He beckons, slotting their fingers together slowly, careful to keep his claws away.

The room was still tinged in a deep shade of maroon, the kind photographers use to develop film. At least the sound of her screams had receded to a dull roar in the distance.

The alpha rears its muzzle, acclimatising to the new body. Deep heavy breaths growl in his ears, biting in places the beast knows will not heal. It thirsts for blood it is owed, hungers for flesh to break bread with. It splits him apart, a world war that rages in his mind. But Derek starves alone in his vigilance, seeking for the light house upon the shore.

In these sacred moments, Stiles flutters in and out of view and selfishly Derek holds onto him, an anchor through the storm.

He knows that one day the waves will overcome him but just for now... He will not ask for more, just this. Before the ghosts in his head rise like a zombie apocalypse, before they tear him apart like they did his sister. Before he becomes one with the undead, he deserves just this.

“I have to go back.” He says, fangs having finally retracted back into blunt human teeth. “I have to see Laura. Make sure she’s…” He doesn't know how to finish that sentence, he doesn't want to.

Stiles shook his head, “_She’s obviously bait to lure you there! If you go, you’ll die. I know you know this, please don't make me say it. Please don't make me the bad guy._”

But his mind is made up. Besides, it was never really his choice to make in the first place. Things that begin in fire must end in fire, that's how the world works.

_“You’re not going."_ Stiles insists stubbornly, _"I’m not travelling cross country just to watch you die you jerk, I have better things to do with my time FYI.”_

Derek sighs, biting down to keep from making promises he knows he’ll break.

“Then stay here.” He offers, “Wait for me.”

The demon rolls his eyes, forked tongue lashing out. 

_“Yea, like that’s gonna happen. I’m a demon Derek, not a cat that needs housesitting.”_

“_You’re not going._ ” he repeats with a tone of finality, eyes narrowing into black slits. 

“_You might as well jump off the Brooklyn bridge and be done with it._”

“I have to. I can’t run any longer.”

“_Fine!_” Stiles snaps, ripping his fingers away, “_If you wanna die that badly then go ahead!_”

The body in his arms begins to fade, curling wisps of smoke and a haunting voice echoed in the empty room. 

"_See you in Hell buddy._" 

—

He knows he’s being childish, he knows that.

It’s the only thing that keeps him from seeing Derek off at the airport.

He did watch him pack though, which should have barely taken ten minutes considering the meagre belongings he has but Derek does it so slowly that he knows it's for Stiles’ benefit.

Somehow, that just made him angrier.

_You could stop him._ A voice says, _you could take control.__It would be easy._

It would be easy, too easy in fact. He could slip in right now and silence Derek's mind completely, leaving only a vegetated husk. If he concentrated really hard, he could even erase all his memories if he wanted to. Derek would be angry, oh he would be furious but at least he’ll be safe. He’ll be alive. Isn’t that the most important thing?

He focuses, pooling the magic to his fingertips. Just then, Derek slings the duffel bag across his body and walks through the door, holding it open for him with a steady gaze. So many words left unsaid, so many promises broken and unfulfilled.

He sighs and closes the door behind him.

* * *

The plane ride is tense.

Stiles hasn’t looked at him since they left the motel and Derek doesn’t know what to do or say to make it better.

He doesn’t want their last conversation to be a fight but they both know he has to go back. Back home, to Beacon Hills where it all began. The thought should send a chill down his spine but it doesn’t, at least not now.

It’s time to face his demons.

“Stiles,” He begins, one hand on the steering wheel as they pass the sign welcoming them to Beacon County.

“I’m—"

_I’m sorry._ _I love you. _ _Please don’t leave._

What comes out instead is, “I’m glad you’re here.” He finishes lamely.

Stiles doesn’t speak and Derek doesn’t try again.

They reach the Hale house. It looked worse in his memories, the second floor had burned through the roof but the first floor was still intact. He spots the familiar wallpaper they used to have in the kitchen, the flowery ones he'd always hated. There's the grandfather clock burnt to cinders in what once must have been the living room where he remembers children running through. Laura showing off her cartwheels and Derek right behind her, struggling to keep up. Cora in the corner, shrieking as she skipped across the carpeted floors. 

Now there was nothing left but soot and ash.

Stiles leans against him, fingers searching for his own. Derek grips their hands together.

There’s nothing left to see and nothing left to say so they leave, wandering out the front yard and into the Preserve.He could smell faint traces of Laura mixed with death and decay. They follow the trail at a steady pace, forest growing denser with each step.

A rustle in the wind stops him and he lets go of Stiles’ hand. It’s time.

“How pleasant to see you again, dear nephew.” 

“Come here, give me a hug.” A figure steps out into the clearing and Stiles gasps softly beside him.

The bright moonlight illuminated a crown of golden brown hair, along with it was a face that Derek scarcely recognised. One half of it was marred by burnt scars, running all the way down to his neck. His right eye was slightly sunken in, facial tissue still exposed where werewolf healing had tried to reverse the damage.

“Oh, silly me. Perhaps you didn’t recognise me with this?” Uncle Peter pats the side of his face with a clawed finger.

“But it's definitely me, Derek! Your Uncle Petey, The one, the only!” He bows, as if taking off an imaginary top hat.

He always did have a flare for the theatrical.

“You killed Laura.” He grits out, a statement not a question, sharp claws sliding out from beneath calloused fingertips.

“And you killed our whole family” is the reply, short and sweet.

“Who’s the real monster here?” Peter continues, unsheathing his own claws. They glint in the dewy forest fog, blurring the edges between truth and reality.

It’s as much as warning as he gets before a giant black beast leaps towards him. He knows it’s coming but the howl still rips through his chest, blood gushing out in waves.

_“Derek!”_

Peter roars back, tilting his shaggy head before plunging forward to close a muzzle along his neck.

"You deserve to die, for what you did to them!"

He knows it's true, even without Peter to throw it in face. He's always known. What began with fire must always end in fire. Derek chokes on his own blood, digging his claws into the monster's flesh and dragging them down across the side, narrowly missing it's heart.

_“He’s not your Uncle anymore!"_ Stiles screams in feverish tones _“You have to kill him!”_

Incisors dropping, Derek surges to clamp down on a shoulder but the beast had taken advantage of his hesitation, gorging out his torso where half his spleen hung from it's teeth like a yo-yo. It's too much and he stumbles to the floor on one knee, clutching at his side. Peter's maniacal laughter rings through the air as his vision blurs from the blood loss. There's no time to heal, the close range keeps him from escaping.

This is it.

A clawed hand raised high in the sky, casting swift judgement from above.

The last thing he hears is the alpha's howl, a soft lonely sound in the distance calling his name.

He closes his eyes and gives in.

—

_‘DEREK!’_

He seizes control, shooting out streams of fire in every direction. They catch onto the trees, climbing like infernal apes upon the lush greenery. In a flash, the entire forest was sparked with embers, lighting up the night sky like a giant beacon.

Peter roars, as if losing control, eyes flashing between blue and red like he'd seen it happen on Derek. Sparks flare in sudden bursts and the giant black flings it's arms back, lashing out blindly with clawed fingers. It staggers on hind legs as flames danced at its feet but did not stop its assault, tearing down charred branches as it pawed at the dirt.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, using the temporary distraction to force all his remaining magic into Derek’s body. It's not nearly enough and he panics, clutching at the soil as he made vain pleas to the earth. It can't end this way, not after two hundred years trapped below ground, _please, oh please, God if you're listening—_

The beast shifts closer, tearing out its own fur where fire had singed the edges into a charcoal black. Snapping jaws come dangerously close to his neck and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

With a whoosh, they disappear into the night.

* * *

Derek wakes up to his name being called repeatedly.

He blinks to see Stiles above him, amber eyes glassy with his own reflection. His lips are trembling, mumbling something that Derek can't understand. Long fingers clutch at his shoulders, propping him up to lean against a solid chest. Derek smiles and lifts up a finger to touch the frost-bitten cheek, surprised when it leaves behind a bloody smear.

_Oh_, he thinks. _I’m dying._

He is.

He’s also very, very tired but Stiles is a noisy sobbing mess above him so he can’t fall asleep.

Not yet.

His wolf is quiet now, the blood red moon fading into a deep blue sea of stars. Stiles must have teleported them here, somewhere up in the mountains where snow was slowly falling from the sky. A sliver of a crescent smile beams down at him in the horizon, if he reaches out a hand, he could almost grab it. But just breathing takes too much effort and there'll be plenty of time soon enough.

_I’m coming Mom,_ he thinks quietly.

_I’m coming home._

He turns his focus back to Stiles, trying to commit every single detail to memory; the soft curvature of his nose, the too thin lips, the buzzed head and intelligent amber eyes. The smell of ash and sulphur was completely gone now, replaced by the sweet scent of tangerines and cinnamon. Like the moon above, it's so close he could almost taste it on his tongue. Almost.

"Don't cry" He pleads.

"It's okay, Stiles. Don’t cry." 

Stiles cries even harder, chanting his name in a hopeless babble.

Derek can’t help but let out a bloodied chuckle in response.

“Love you." He whispers, by means of apology.

He hasn’t said those words in since the fire, not even to Laura. They rush out of him in relief, releasing the burden on his shoulders in one fell swoop. He feels strangely afloat, like the air was trying to pull him up along with it. The only thing that keeps him grounded is the demon above him, cursing profanities so creative that Derek is pretty sure no one has never heard them before.

Smiling, he entwines their fingers together. They were calling for him, he had to go.

He doesn't want to but he has to.

They were calling.

“Everything will be alright” He breathes out one last time.

_Love you._


End file.
